


Learning to Trust

by ArianneMaya



Series: Aftermath [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArianneMaya/pseuds/ArianneMaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>When she leaves Sam and Steve standing next to Fury's grave, Natasha doesn't need to stop and think about where she's going. Now that so many of her secrets are out in the world for everyone to see, she has very few safe places left, but right now, that's exactly what she needs: to retreat and lick her wounds until she's strong enough to face her past and rebuild herself. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This one took a big detour into Natasha's past and her first encouter with Clint because the Winter Soldier movie left me wanting a lot more of her.  
> Many thanks to @eeyore9990 for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

When she leaves Sam and Steve standing next to Fury's grave, Natasha doesn't need to stop and think about where she's going. Now that so many of her secrets are out in the world for everyone to see, she has very few safe places left, but right now, that's exactly what she needs: to retreat and lick her wounds until she's strong enough to face her past and rebuild herself. 

It takes her three days to get to the house. On her way inside, she grabs the mail. There's a package, from one of her contacts in Europe, one of the handful left who will still talk to her and help if they can. Most of her network has crumbled along with SHIELD. Inside she finds another file, one more crumb that she'll hand to Steve, giving him the little help she can. 

The clinking of her keys on the entrance table resonate in the silence. To her surprise, the house is empty. She'd been expecting Clint to have beaten her here, but there's no trace of him. No boots next to the door; no muddy footstep, the tell-tale sign that he didn't bother to take off his boots; no shower running in the background, with Clint's horrible off-key singing carrying over the sound of the water.

That's when she notices it. Along with the package from her contact and a couple of bills, there's a letter for Julia Greyson, the name under which Natasha rented the house, addressed in Clint's chicken scratch. 

A shiver climbs its way up her back. A letter is never good news. It means that Clint isn't coming and that he had no other way to warn her. 

She makes her way to the living room, curls up on the couch, and opens the letter. 

Two pages that anybody but her would see as the romantic act of lovers corresponding in an old-fashioned way. But she knows how to read between the lines, how to understand Clint's real meaning underneath the nonsense. 

Pure dread threatens to swallow her whole as she reads on. The house, her house, isn't safe. Clint's cover was blown up in the middle of a mission and he has to lay low, to such a point that coming to her isn't a possibility. 

She keeps waiting for the punchline, for the moment when he'll tell her, in their usual covert way, where and when she can find him. He doesn't. 

Her eyes burn as she reads not the words he wrote but the ones he couldn't and that she knows are his real meaning. 

_I'm sorry, Tasha._

She understands. She knows there's nothing she can do except wait, but it's killing her. She needs him now, almost more than she needs to breathe, and he isn't there. 

And when she thinks that nothing else can surprise her, the postscript just about makes her heart stop beating. 

_Uncle Phil says hi. He's back from his holiday._

Coulson is alive. _Alive._

She closes her eyes, lets the letter fall to the floor, curls in her fingers so hard that she can feel the small crescents her nails leave in her palms. She welcomes the pain as one of the few things she can still control. She inhales, slowly, and counts to ten before she exhales. 

The last time her world was turned upside down that spectacularly was almost seven years ago. 

***

By the time she figures out that someone's trailing her, it's already too late. She's not exactly surprised; she's aware that she's pissed off a lot of powerful people. Still, after she feels something fly next to her hair and miss her head by no more than an inch, her eyes almost bug out of her head when she looks up and find an arrow embedded in the wall. 

Without thinking, she grabs the arrow out of the wall and runs for her life. As she's about to turn the corner, she risks a look over her shoulder and spots the guy who was following her. He still has his bow but isn't aiming at her, no more than he's making any move to run after her. 

It makes so little sense that it's enough to wake her curiosity. Finding him is a lot easier than it should have been, and it's far too simple to figure out his routine, to know when he's going to be alone in his motel room, without the man who's obviously his handler. 

When he enters his room at the end of the afternoon, she's sitting on his bed, twirling his arrow between her fingers. “I believe this is yours.” 

“Yes. It is.” He closes the door and rests his back against it. 

She allows herself the hint of a smile when she realizes that he won't come any closer until he's sure she's not a danger to him. “You missed your shot.”

“No. I never miss a shot.” She arches an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation, and he continues, “If I'd meant to kill you, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“Then what is this?”

“This is me offering you a way out.”

“A way out?” Her disbelief has to show through her words. He's trying to lure her into letting her guard down, but she doesn't have that luxury. Never has, probably never will. 

“I was sent to kill you, true. But I think that you'll be more useful alive than dead. Come with me.”

She almost laughs in his face. “Do you think I'm dumb enough to believe you?”

“People don't survive in our line of work by being dumb. I think you're smart enough to recognize an opportunity when you see one.”

He seems to take the fact that she hasn't made any hostile move as a good sign and slowly approaches her. 

“Tell me, then, why the hell whoever you're working for would want me in. They sent you to kill me, you said it yourself.”

“Because they could use your skills.”

Just as he reaches the bed, she throws the arrows on the bedcover and stands. She turns her back to him, facing the window, making herself appear as small and vulnerable as possible. “And what happens if I say no?”

“I'll have to kill you.” There's no emotion in his voice. He's merely stating a fact, and she respects him a little bit more because of that. “I swear I'll make it as quick as I can.”

This time there's no holding back her derisive laughter. “Yeah, sure. Like I don't know most of the people I've pissed off wouldn't want me to have a gentle death.”

“I work for SHIELD.” 

She stares at him over her shoulder, certain that she must have misunderstood. “They will never take me in. Not after everything I've done.”

He sits on the bed. She can see that he's doing his best to appear non-threatening, but she isn't buying it, not even for a second. “Yes, they will. As long as you remain loyal, there will be someone to watch your back. Wouldn't it be better than to always be on your own?”

“I don't trust people.” 

He smiles in a way that gives the impression he knows something about her that she doesn't. She hates him for it. 

“You don't have much of a choice. I'm risking my balls by telling you all this. If you refuse, you're back on death row.” 

“Why?” She still doesn't believe him. There has to be a catch, something, but she can't figure out what it is and it's driving her nuts. “Why are you doing this?” 

“I told you. You'll be a lot more useful alive than dead.”

She can tell he's lying and she has a feeling that he's aware of that, but she doesn't question it. No matter how insane the situation seems to be, one thing is sure: she doesn't want to die. And if there's one thing she's good at, it's doing whatever is necessary to survive.

“I'm coming with you,” she finally says, and then, like an afterthought, “Can I ask for your name?”

“Hawkeye.” 

She tilts her head at the obvious codename. It's impossible that he doesn't know her real name, but as she sticks out her hand to shake his, she says, “Black Widow.” 

And because that's the name she gave him, that's how he addresses her from that moment on. 

***

Over the next couple of days, she realizes that Hawkeye was telling the truth about at least one thing: judging from the number of arguments she hears between him and Coulson, his handler, he was risking his balls by making her that offer. 

That doesn't explain anything, though. There's no reason for him to want to help her, not after everything she's done. Either it's a very intricate, carefully constructed trap, or... she doesn't know. No matter how hard she tries, how many different ways she looks at the situation, it still doesn't make any sense. 

So she goes with the most logical explanation – that he's thinking with his dick – and decides to make the first move. She's aware that help with no strings attached doesn't exist. Besides, Hawkeye isn't that hard on the eyes, and he's been treating her with a respect she isn't used to anymore. It's probably a front, but as long as he's willing to pretend like this, she has a feeling that having sex with him wouldn't be that bad. Who knows, it might even be fun. 

If that's the price she has to pay for her freedom, she has no problem with it. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time. 

She can play shy and coy, all flirty smiles and batting eyelashes like the best of them, but she has a feeling that with Hawkeye, she has a better chance with a no-bullshit attitude. That night, once she's sure that Coulson isn't in the room and that he isn't going to drop in on them, she _forgets_ her clothes when she steps into the bathroom to take a shower. Since the ones she's worn all day are sweaty and disgusting, there's no way she's putting them back on after washing herself. 

She walks out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but a flimsy towel. 

Hawkeye shakes his head at the very obvious display. “Get dressed.”

She takes a step in the direction of the bed he's sitting on. “Are you sure that's what you want?”

“Yes, I'm sure.” He averts his eyes and turns his back to her. 

Refusing to believe him, she lets her towel fall to the floor and walks up to him. When he refuses to look at her, she gracefully drops to her knees. 

His sharp intake of breath gives her the tiniest hint of a smile. He's not as unaffected as he wants to appear. _Good._

She runs her hands up his thighs. “Please. I can tell you want this.” 

His hands fall over hers, altering her progression. “But you don't. And I'm not that kind of man.”

“Every man is that kind of man.” He doesn't offer much resistance when she frees her hands, but instead of moving away as he's obviously expecting her to, she brings a hand to his crotch, smirking when she notices him growing hard under her touch. “See?” 

With infinite gentleness, she opens the buttons of his pants. “You've been kind to me. Let me repay you.”

“Jesus fucking _Christ._ ” 

She notices that he sounds angry more than anything else right before he grabs onto her wrist and pushes her with enough strength that she falls onto her side. 

“Is this what you want, then?” She keeps her eyes trained onto the ground and barely dares to move. This isn't what she was offering and the little she's seen of him had her hoping that he would be a kind lover. But she will do _anything_ to survive. 

Hawkeye stands and rummages around the room before dropping something in front of her. She blinks, a bit lost when she recognizes the sweat pants and tank top she wears to sleep. 

“Get. Dressed.”

This time she obeys and, once she's done, grabs him by the arm when he tries to turn away from her. “Why, then? Why are you helping me?”

“Why do you keep asking that question if you won't believe me when I tell you?”

“If you stopped lying to me, maybe I'd believe you!”

He stares at her for the longest time but she has no idea what he thinks. Then, he finally says, “Okay.”

She lets him go when he pulls away. She has no idea what the hell just happened. 

Just as he's about to get into bed, he seems to notice her still standing there. “What?”

Offering a small shrug, she says, “It's not the reaction I was expecting.” 

“I saw that.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes. 

“No, I mean...” She makes her way to the other bed. “It takes courage, to present myself without a weapon. It thought you'd at least recognize that.”

“You really think I'm unaware of the fact that you use your body as a weapon?”

It's always surprising how easily he can read her. She does her best not to let it show. Her whole reputation is built on her ability to be exactly what people want or need her to be. Meeting someone who makes her feel like he can see right through her every time is... disconcerting, to say the least. The jury's still out on whether she finds that thought scary or comforting. 

She wakes up at three in the morning and finds him wide awake. When neither of them manages to fall asleep again, he says, very softly, “My name is Clint. Clint Barton.”

Every night after this one, he tells her stories. He tells her about growing up in a circus and how he picked up archery. He tells her about how hard it was sometimes, about his father and his brother. He tells her why he said no to her that night, why he wouldn't fuck her unless he was sure that she wanted it, and for the right reasons. He tells her about being a lost kid without any kind of future in front of him. He tells her about the SHIELD agent who recruited him. 

The last night before they reach SHIELD's headquarters, he says, “The reason why I'm here is because someone thought I was worth more than what people could see and took a chance on me. I'm trying to do the same thing for you.”

She almost believes him. 

It's only the next day, once Coulson has seen SHIELD's director and Hawkeye's entrance into the guy's office is followed by a furious, “Barton, your explanation better be _damn good_ ,” before the door closes behind him that she realizes he was telling her the truth all along, from the moment when he told her his real name. 

She stares at the wall as she tries to process this new piece of information. Hawkeye – Clint – wasn't trying to wear her down and make her weak. He was giving her everything she needs if she wants to bring him down. He knew he wasn't going to win her trust, so he gave her his, no questions asked. 

Later, right as she's about to be swept away by a team of SHIELD's therapists – she needs to be assessed and deprogrammed as necessary – he calls out to her. “Widow.” When her attention is on him, he continues, “Don't make me regret this.”

“I won't.” Director Fury used the exact same words and so did she, but this time, she says it like a promise. One that means so much more than swearing her loyalty to SHIELD. 

Right before the elevator doors close in front of her, she adds, loud enough that he can hear her, “My name's Natasha.”

Of course he already knows her name, but it's the only way she's found of repaying him in kind, of thanking him. Clint seems to understand it and, for the first time, he offers her a real smile. 

***

When she opens her eyes, it feels like Natasha hasn't caught her breath yet. She's doing her best to focus on the big picture, but there are too many details getting in her way. 

She takes another long breath. Once she finally feels like she has herself under control, she picks up the letter from where she dropped it on the floor and reads it a second time. She chooses to ignore the postscript for now. It doesn't change anything about her situation; it only makes her more emotional and, because of that, vulnerable. 

For a second, she wonders if that might be the reason why Clint added that last line. If, no matter how much she believes in him, he might be HYDRA. It was him who recruited her, after all. 

She refuses to acknowledge that thought. If that's the case, she'll deal with it when she has to, not a second sooner. 

The one thing that hits her in the face on the second read is that the house isn't safe. Did Clint mean for him, or for her, too? She has no idea. He doesn't say, or if he does, she can't find the hint. 

But the uncertainty is enough to make her usual confidence disappear. She can't stay here.

***

For the next couple of days, she moves from one safe house to the other, never staying more than one night in the same place. She's aware it's nothing but paranoia and exhaustion driving her forward, but it's as if she's forgotten how to stop. The more exhausted she becomes, the more if feels like she would need to suspend time just to take a breath, but the one person she could always trust to watch over her is nowhere to be found. 

It lasts for two weeks before she realizes that the file she was supposed to send Steve's way is still on the passenger seat of her car. 

She stops in a small town for a cup of coffee and sends him a text. 

_Where are you?_

She smiles, amused when he gives her the name of a town in New Jersey. _You starting to love it there, or what?_

_There was a lead._

She frowns as she answers, _You busy?_

As practical as text messaging can be, sometimes she hates that she can't see people's face. That makes it a lot harder to figure them out. 

_No. Trail got cold._

_And you're still in New Jersey because...?_

_Sam kind of forced me to take a break._

She feels her heart tighten in her chest and, not for the first time, she wonders if she was barking up the wrong tree when trying to set Steve up with women. 

_Gimme the adress. I have something for you._

She's in Vermont. It's almost a seven hour drive, but it's still early in the afternoon. She should get there before the sun goes down. 

***

She arrives later than she thought she would. She's a bit surprised when she realizes she's facing a rented house and not a sleazy motel. 

All she wants is to give Steve the file and go, but as soon as she walks in, he closes the door behind her and asks, “What have you been up to?”

He's worried, she can see it. So she does her best to appear as in control as she always is. “Moving around, mostly.”

Steve gives a small nod. “Barton?”

“I have no idea where he is.”

She hates how lost she sounds, but she didn't take enough time to put her poker face on before coming inside and she wasn't expecting that kind of question. 

“Stay the night,” Steve offers. 

It's tempting, so very tempting, but she says, “I... No. It's not a good idea.”

“You can't drive in the state you're in, Natasha.” 

The reminder that she looks as emotionally bruised and battered as she feels hurts her to the core and has her shaking her head. “I really can't.”

Steve frowns, looking even more worried, but he's too polite to try and convince her otherwise. 

However, just as she's about to leave, Sam steps out of the living room and joins them. “Were you followed?”

The question takes her by surprise. “Of course not.”

“Then you have no reason not to stay.” Sam walks up to her but keeps a little space between them. “We got your back.”

“Besides,” Steve adds, “If you didn't want to stay, you'd have sent the file with somebody else."

She's never been one to trust easily, yet she has to admit that they're both right and she hears herself saying, “All right.” She realizes that she believes they can keep her safe, almost as well as Clint does.

She knows that facing life or death situations together have a tendency to make people trust each other, but she never really expects that to apply to her. Yet, here she is.

She has to admit that it's a very nice feeling.


End file.
